FACE TO FACE

In February existence stood still.

Birds didn’t fly willingly and the soul

chafed against the landscape the way a boat

chafes against the dock it lies moored to.

The trees stood with their backs to us.

Snow-depth was measured with dead straw.

Footprints grew old out on the crust.

Under a tarp, language withered.

One day something appeared at the window.

Work came to a halt, I looked up.

The colors burned. Everything turned around.

The land and I sprang toward each other.